


Pride, If Nothing Else

by itsjimfromit



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:26:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsjimfromit/pseuds/itsjimfromit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was as if Q had been right beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride, If Nothing Else

**Author's Note:**

> Just saw Skyfall yesterday. ALL THE FEELS. Please enjoy this.

James Bond is not okay. He wears the blood of several different men splattered across his ruined suit, and there’s an inch long scrape along his jaw that threatens to scar. His left arm is as good as broken, and his legs threaten to give way at any moment. But he won’t let them know that. Instead, he keeps his head held high and avoids anxious glances. He has a single goal in mind: Q.

  
Q knows that James is injured from the moment he pushes open the door to the lab. He also knows that he’ll deny it vehemently. So he simply nods at the agent.

  
“007,” he says coolly, while the interns attempt not to gape.

  
“Q,” Bond replies. He reaches a hand out for support, but retracts it at the last moment.

  
“My equipment?” Q asks, toying with his mug. James, with difficulty, fishes in his pockets and comes up with several pieces of shattered metal. Q closes his eyes.

  
“I wonder why I even try,” he says aloud before getting up, “Right then, out. All of you. I’ve a matter I need to discuss with 007.” Grudgingly, they file out. Q immediately strides over to the door and jams a chair under the knob.

  
“High tech, that,” Bond quips, collapsing suddenly. Q catches his head before it hits the ground. He helps James into a sitting position and crouches beside him, searching his deep blue eyes for some tale of what’s happened. He won’t find it.

  
“You’ll let me look you over,” Q says, and James knows that it isn’t a question. He’s too tired to argue, and suddenly, Q’s nimble fingers are everywhere, poking and prodding and stroking. He closes his eyes.

  
He doesn’t need to be taken care of. He’s been in worse situations; suffered worse injuries than the ones he’s sporting now. But he wants Q to take care of him. He wants to be helped for a change.

  
“I suppose you won’t tell me what happened?” James opens one eye, and Q sighs, brushing off his knees as he stands.

  
“Give me a moment.” James gingerly begins to dig shards of shrapnel out of his right wrist, ignoring the pain of the broken bone.

  
“Here,” Q says softly, forcing a warm mug into Bond’s right hand. James opens his eyes and watches as his quartermaster expertly stops the bleeding in his arm, disinfects, and wraps it.

  
“I heard everything, you know,” Q announces, stopping suddenly. Bond doesn’t blink.

  
“I lost the comm.”

  
“Mm, yes,” Q replies, deftly snaking his fingers inside Bond’s shirt. He retrieves a small piece of black paper, no bigger than a penny, and inspects it carefully.

  
“It’s just a prototype-an experiment, really,” Q says to Bond’s baffled expression, “More importantly, it’s the only thing you haven’t destroyed.” He slides it into a glass case and returns to the agent’s wounds, gently dabbing the blood and God knows what else from his face. His hands shake. Bond pretends not to notice.

  
“Do you always come so close to death?” Q tries to ask nonchalantly, but his pitch rises ever so slightly towards the end. James closes his eyes.

  
“Q-”

  
“I understand, of course, that your line of work doesn’t come without danger.” He pauses, searching for the words before he goes on.  
“However, I must remain impartial. You are a double oh, and I am your quartermaster. I do what I can, James, but it’ll never be enough. You’ve no idea how maddening it is to stand there and carry on as if you aren’t two steps from death. It’s bloody hopeless!”

James remains stoic while Q, having gathered himself, begins to set his arm. He starts suddenly as the quartermaster’s mug tumbles through his fingers and shatters, spraying them both with lukewarm Earl Grey.

  
“Shit,” James mutters, “I apologize.” Q does his best to gather the pieces and sop up the tea.

  
“It’s alright," he says, “it was just an old thing, really. I’ll get another.” James reaches out with his right hand and takes Q’s nervous, trembling one in his own. His quartermaster looks away.

  
“There are certain things,” he begins softly, “That aren’t meant to be heard. It’s difficult to be impartial when you’re young, Q, and once you’ve put in time here, you’ll realize that emotions are a hindrance. They cause you to pause, and that second you spent contemplating determines whether a man lives or dies; whether we succeed or fail. But you learn to distance yourself from your emotions when you need to. You’ve got a heart, Q. Use it to your advantage.”

James hangs on for a moment more before he releases him and stands the best he can with one arm. Q gathers his supplies and re-adjusts his glasses.

  
“You’ll have to get that arm set properly.” Bond nods at him.

  
“Q.”

  
“007.” The quartermaster watches him straighten his shoulders and stride out of the lab. He considers calling out, but decides against it. Pride, if nothing else, is a destroyer of good intentions.


End file.
